My Madman
by ReedsofSilver
Summary: Following the French Revolution, France lies in ruins. until a short Corsican with dreams as high as the heavens comes along and puts him back on his feet. A one shot interaction between France and Napoleon Bonaparte. Historical Fic.


_**I have always found the French Revolution and France's recovery afterwards to be an enthralling piece of history. This story is about France and Napoleon. How a little man with dreams of grandeur was able to restore a nation to its feet. **_

Out of the darkness a voice called. It spoke in French, but the sound was off, a bit. It was too raised, not enough nasal. Italian maybe, but mixed up, as if the speaker were trying to hide his accent.

France could not see the speaker. His cheek was pressed against the road, his cheekbone digging into the gravel, bleeding. His lips encircled the top of an empty wine bottle. He would have to get another one, fall away from this world, turn to delusion. It was warmer there, safer. The eyes did not watch him.

"France!" the voice cried again, "what has become of you?"

Was this man really calling for him? What did he want? His heart thrust in and out in his thin chest, madly beating, anticipating another blow, more pain. He had come to expect the pain, even to relish in it. If this were the only way his people could be free then let his body fall to ruin, but he did not want to see them. He would not face his persecutors, the men and nations who came to laugh as he lay bleeding.

"You were once so great, weren't you? But it seems that you have fallen down on top of yourself. Not careful enough. You should have looked where you were going while you were walking around with that fine head of yours decorating the air."

Groaning, France tried to sit up, but the palms of his hands were raw. They burned as he tried pushing himself off the ground. He fell down again. Turning his head, he tried to find his tormentor. His locks fell over his face—dirty, tangled, bloody locks, hiding him from the world, the world from him. He felt bone under his fingers as he moved to push the hair aside. His skull was cracking open. Dying. He was dying.

"What do you want?" France croaked.

The crier looked down at him. He was an ugly man, short with pudgy face, seemed to be balding. Of course, France thought, I don't look that well myself. Just a battered body left to die.

"Did you come to laugh at me?" he asked, when the man continued to watch him in silence.

"No," the man returned.

"Then why did you come?"

"To make you well again."

"Then why not heal me, instead of laughing in my face?"

"Am I laughing?" the man asked carefully. He twisted a strand of his dark hair around one of his fat fingers.

"Well, no, but," France felt his teeth hit together as he spoke " …you are cruel."

"I had to get your attention."

"A simple, 'how are you?' would have been adequate." France said.

He lay his head back down, closed his eyes. The sun was too bright, the man irritating. He wondered what season it was, how long he had been lying there, but he did not really care. In his back and legs, he could still feel the imprint of Austria's boots.

"Where is she? Where is she?" that usually frail voice had shouted. Marie Theresa's foolish and beautiful daughter, The Queen of France, she was dead. Austria should have known that. He should never come, should never have brought his little party of Britain and Prussia, to cackle as France died. He had paid for it. The revolutionaries had driven Austria out, in blood and shame. They had torn Belgium from him. They would not stand an aristocrat, be he man or nation.

"The year before I was born," the man said, "you captured my home—Corsica."

"Ah, so you are here for revenge?" France smiled slightly, despite the pain "I'm sorry you are late. I've already been done over and over and over."

He rolled the words off his tongue mockingly, hoping the man would strike soon and then leave.

"No, not revenge, but please hear me through."

"I am tired, and I do not know who you are."

"That will come in time. Like I said, I was born in Corsica."

"That would explain your silly accent."

"Are all you Frenchmen the same? Paying more attention to how we speak, then what we have to say?"

"Probably," France smirked, holding back a moan.

"The lads at my military academy they tortured me over my accent, ridiculed me at every opportunity. It came so, I grew to hate France and all it stood for."

"You learned to hate me."

"Yes. I very much hated you."

"So, you are here to gloat over your unearned victory?"

"No, I fought you in Corsica, but you only admired me for it. Gave me a post in your army, can't you remember?"

"No, I cannot recall you, monsieur. I cannot remember much these days. My head is always on fire."

"You drink too much."

"Oui. Je sais."

"You gave me a commission in your army, I…"

"S'il vous plaît," France chuckled hoarsely, "do not bore me with the story of your life. Why are you here?"

"You are laughing at me, sir. Even as you lie dying, you laugh. I cannot stand it. I will not have people laugh at me."

"Then you'd best be forgotten, monsieur. For no one is above a joke. Not even God."

"Ah, but I do not wish to be forgotten. If they are to laugh, let them laugh ages from now and still in fear. I intend to rule this miserable world. I intend to rule it all."

"And you intend to start with a land already broken, to boost your superego, my poor madman?"

"No, France, you will not be like that with me, not a stepping stone, not a bridge. You will be mine, and you shall have the world. I will repair you, and build you into something greater than you have ever been. I shall take you from the gutter and transform you to the greatest empire of any age."

"Which you shall be emperor of?"

"Of course. No one else knows my plans like me."

"I thought you hated me."

"Perhaps I did, but it is my destiny to rule thee, and as it is yours to follow me to thine glory."

"But," France groaned, "you are talking nonsense. My people are scattered, or purging themselves in foaming blood."

"I shall put an end to that," the man replied, kneeling down near him in the blood and dung, soiling his white breeches. Gently, he lifted France up, let him lean against him. "I shall take care of you. Your people will have so many to kill; they will have no need to kill each other. Under jewel covered blankets and silk sheets, you will lie with the nations of the world. Italy, Austria, Egypt, England…they shall all know your strength, and you their weaknesses. You shall rule forever."

The man lifted France up in his arms, cradled him like a child against him. Blinded by the sun, France groped for the man's neck, found it, put his arms about it, clung.

"Where are you taking me?" he whimpered.

"To the hospital. There you shall find rest and healing."

"Will you give me more wine?"

"I shall give you victory."

"Wine easier to come by," France muttered into the man's shoulder. Though he was starting to like being carried. The warmth of the other man, the closeness, the care with which he held him, all of these filled him with a desire to love and be loved. He wanted to close his eyes and let someone else lead, 'Monsieur, s'il vous plaît, would you tell me your name?"

"I am called Bonaparte," the man said, "Napoleon Bonaparte."

"Ah, one of those burning revolutionaries."

"Yes, one of those."

"Well, Monsieur Bonaparte, you will be remembered. At least, by me."

With those words, France closed his eyes, allowing himself to be once more swallowed by oblivion.

Translations:

S'il vous plaît—please.

Oui. Je Sais.—Yes. I know.


End file.
